Long Medication Poems
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When I was thirteen years young, I filleted my upper right thigh.
47 times.
In one night.
In one hour.
I wrote suicide notes,
Every night.
I folded them up and put them in a drawer where the hid.
Similar to the thoughts in the back cabinet of my mind.
Dusty and untouched by the ears of any but my own, I rip them apart.
Showing my emotions was always difficult.
But so was showing them.
So I hid my scars, along with the rest of my body. I had become a being of pure collagen.
I festered over myself to become whoever those who were around me had wanted me to be.
I folded under such slight pressure, a gust of wind could have put me away for months at a time.
I was a Petri dish for one of God’s unexplained.
Marching into every day like a virus in a new repertory system, “Hello, here I am!” And “No I don’t think meds will help...”
So I had quit taking them.
The anti depressants.
The sleeping medication.
The meds you take the morning after sleeping medication, to deactivate those sleeping pills, so that you’re at least awake to be numb.
I stopped taking them, because I felt sympathy for factory machines.
They’re told how to run.
When to be off, when to be on, and the second they are off when they should be on, something is presumed to be wrong.
I felt shame inject itself into my cardiovascular. I felt it coursing through my veins.
I saw it
in my hands
the night I introduced my flesh to an eyeliner sharpeners blade.
What they don’t tell you when you start medication, is that your brain senses this new and regular source of this chemical, and stops producing it.
So I, was a literal wreck.
I cut everyone toxic out of my life very quickly.
I took my antidepressant.
I gave myself time to heal.
I figured out what kind of person I wanted to be.
Kind
Forgiving
Brave
And I brought her to life.
to a beatless heart
machine, an iron lung,
and the privilege to stay living.
To one– gash too
puss, and peaceful.
A podium; is this thing still on?
America is a hearth
of cotton and twine
and it’s summer migrants’
fallen feathers
snapped beaks and
declawed ghetto poets.
Its speech is stolen
from sounds of snakes,
a soft SS, of gags
and jeers of a ballroom.
But my America listens
to love. Mirrors
zoochosis: itself.
It is a bondage,
my America.
To your body and voice
your weaponry,
your snare trap medication
and your home.
Feel the cheek of today,
my America,
bite it and bleed
and taste how bitter, my America.
The cusp of bloom, my America,
is poor harbor bay: an explosion of red
but you have been the light of god, a white
ship, only crawling in the great blue.
If I kiss you,
my America,
will I know you slipped
a “F*gg*t”
between my teeth,
or will I save it till tomorrow,
wish it down the fountain drain?
You just can’t give up
this sanctuary– this America.
Because my mother tells me
I am safe.
In photographs and in the palms
of her hands.
And I do not think of
death. To America.
“Sedation”
by Positive Mark
Deep, still blue.
Rage from the Peekskills, now caged from his street skills, with the vantage point of a gargoyle heart of stone.
The streets should be mine, but there’s always other stragglers.
Used to be streets. Now, it’s backroads, chasing antlers.
Conjuring faces of the fallen. Wondering from what damned direction I’ma hear our sins calling.
Freeing the spirit with acts that defile matter.
Forever shaking the salt from the blood splatter.
Heart with a hard on for that incense carbon smoke.
Fix me up a bump, and I damn sure better choke.
Point me to the spot where them cats is on dippers.
Scroll down on Backpage for Baltimore strippers.
Five day admission, and back to the medication.
Deep, still blue.
Drenched in darkness for sedation.
mass confusion under an abandoned black mailbox
just mentioned as lackadaisical as day,
someone very close to me just told me about diabetes medication
i sit on this empty porch of dried tears with a quickly written letter in my hand
i am thinking about possible amputations and high blood pressure
so secretive, and i do not know where to go
so vague, and i do not know what number to call
so mysterious, and i do not know what hospital in which to go to
the mailbox is now black corn flakes without even intending to be
not knowing the definition of 'where', 'to', 'go', or 'next', i put said quickly written letter in the abandoned, flaky black mailbox
i return back to my weather worn black car and stare into the space of myself in the mirror of the driver side sun visor
LIFE
What kind of life is this?
Sometimes I sit and reminisce
I think about my distant past
The life for me that didn’t last
The life that one day went away
And now it is more work than play
Now I take medication every day
For my Bipolar that is here to stay
Don’t worry though, this is not the end
I’m not going to sit and pretend
There is something else going on
My creativity has grown strong
Life is what you make it
And I am going to take it
Wherever it wants to go
Where it stops, nobody knows
Now I write poems and songs too
It’s a very nice thing to do
If you love doing something, give it a go
Let your creativity flow
Live your life from day to day
Chase those rain clouds far away
Life can sometimes throw you curve balls
Will you run or will you fall?
It’s your life, you can do it
It’s your life, you’ll get through it
It’s your life, it’s your life.
Polarity showed up tonight in the small white pill resting in my palm—assurance and biological impedance within the same small shape. My endocrinologist believes taking it will rebuild my bone's density, coaxing my body to better use protein, collagen, and various minerals in places where time and age have thinned my bone's structure. But the pill brings its own polarity: it promises stronger bones even as a wave of morning-sickness nausea steals my comfort. Still, I take it, gratitude and resentment settling side by side in my heart. I’ve come to realize that sometimes polarity isn’t abstract. It’s real as real can be with me coping with two opposing truths coexisting.
white stone of healing~
a tide pulls both ways inside,
moor and undertow
Asper sweaty palms,
and other physiological ills
nothing beats infusion of
spine tingling electrifying chills -
experiencing psychological nirvana,
(nope NOT even
prescription medication pills)
except attaining, experiencing, and succumbing
delivering to bodily flesh, sans
nightly cathartic, intrinsic dream changing stills
and pacific inner calm gained,
thru shuteye, which tranquility
vis a vis REM hark able slumbers instills
necessary linkedin kickstarter instagram
godaddy transcendent reddit state, and fulfills
verity corroborated by perusing reliable
opinions painstakingly researched tracts
compiled by hands of
expert sleep specialists quills.
No surprise to me reading
(easy to understand)
judiciously, meticulously, and
professionally researched studies,
which unswervingly demand
the absolute zero tolerance
to deny deep jeep grand
(Cherokee) surrender into the land
where lovely bones and flesh
at rest, the agreed stand
hard quota of about seven hours finds
Melatonin the naturally occurring hormone,
secreted by the pineal gland
augmenting figurative trip wire,
where entire corporeal being fanned
by naturally biochemical processes
as if...complex species
guided by invisible hand.
Today, upon arising
without deafening vacuum
cleaner, yours truly did not feel gloom
me, nor rankle, an ordinarily mellow (Hume
more wrist) fellow, nee unlike
yesterday morning, where boom
ming ear splitting cacophony
gravely rented death stillness
unwittingly did exhume
even the grateful dead,
they did fuss and fume
(lumbering like 10,000 maniacs)
furious with rage
unbridled as many a jilted groom
(imagine a billion infuriated room
Hun hating thwarted lovers) assume
ming stanced ready to throttle throat
of she that chose to clean house
no matter engendering global sonic boom.
As the ethereal guitar mesmerises
My soul responds
As if I dipped into a melodic bath
Of perfectly curated
Lovingly tempered
Heart massaging
Candle flickering
Water
A fragrant tune invades
My nostrils
Flaring as the warm
Moistened air tumbles by
The world merges into
Perfection
Harmony
Stirring
The resonance
Of childhood memory
Percolating through the mist
As sliding strings
Caress my ears
My mind drifting
Towards that past
Safer place
Yet this mesmerising medication
This tuneful tumult quelling
Perfect prescription
Is deeply welcome
Somewhere in my gut
My true being
Soothed as we surrender
To this soulful sabbath
May you never grow old
At the joyful table
Where your soul dines
Hear the whispers
Of the small pleasures
Taste the fermented flavours
Of the ordinary delights
Using all your available senses
When the music plays
To transport you
Run to catch the moment
Soak in the vapour
Embibe the elixir
Breathe it all in deeply
Holding in gratitude
Each heavenly moment
You gotta die of somethingsaid the man
As he ate another pie and sauce,
gulped down the sixth ,daily stubbie can
Have you ever crossed the path
of a self abusive masochist
Who is suddenly confronted at the crossroad
Where existence has presented ,
a life defining twist
Suddenly when it appears
that there's not too much life left
Ya gotta die of something
is spoken as a cleft
The arteries are blocked
if you exercise you are feeling spent
Open up the chest for a bypass
also most likely, a need to fit a stent
Perhaps a pacemaker
prevention for when the heart does skip a beat
Wow!!! this amazing medical system?????????
got a few more years left if you don't cheat
Resort to medications, chemotherapy, radiation
surgeons to remove an organ section
Treat the symptom not the cause
of the painful part that's in question
Or maybe they receive
a donor kidney or liver
Well thank you very much
pass that on to the generous organ giver
It's normal for the body to reject a foreign organ
life threatening danger within the body it's still fraught
Prescription, anti rejection medication
to nullify an impending natural immune system onslaught
WELL MATE I GUESS YA GOTTA DIE OF SOMETHING
Dear Mr president
I seem to be in a spot of bother,
Would you please grant me a pardon
before you depart the oval room,
Seeking a change of reality
I ran away and joined the circus
well actually it was more a sideshow
Ringmaster said I’d fit in better with the midget contortionist,
however I was drawn towards the Siamese triplets,
joined together at their knees and elbows since birth
We got up to all sorts of hi jinx and Shenanigans life was great,
til the one in the middle decided to leave our troupe,
Me being their best friend they asked would I do the separation,
eager to help them I agreed to perform the operation
Not having a clue about surgery
I decided to knock them out with a sledgehammer
borrowed from the strongman,
and use the knife throwers sharpest blades,
I butchered them remorselessly for hours,
was a very difficult operation,
but wholly satisfying for me anyway,
Unfortunately but not unexpectedly,
the middle one suffered the most cuts and bled out pretty quick,
the other two died days later in multiple beds,
I was put in some hospital for the criminally insane,
and doped up to my eyeballs on potent medication,
actually settled in quite nicely here,
Worse part though is I had a fantastic combover like yours
now they shave my head every other day
Some say they’ll never let me out,
only occasionally do I think of going on killing rampages,
I’m not getting on to well with the parole board, “mostly democrats”
but hope to marry the midget contortionist, on our next imaginary visit,
The circus was disbanded, shortly after,
and they all live on welfare now,
bunch of really great guys.
I’m a republican
PARDON GRANTED
By David Kavanagh